The morning sun filtered softly through the gauze curtains, casting golden ribbons across the apartment walls. Aiko sat cross-legged at their shared dining table, a mug of green tea cooling beside her sketchpad. Her fingers, smudged with charcoal and color pencil dust, moved quickly, giving form to a new vision—one that had come to her in a dream, filled with floating lanterns and rivers that shimmered with memory.
She hadn't told Haruto yet. About the message.
It had arrived just yesterday evening, quietly, almost like an afterthought from the universe.
"Dear Aiko Tanaka,
We are honored to inform you that your piece 'Unspoken Echoes' has been nominated for the National Young Artists Award, under the Emerging Talent category…"
She had stared at the words for so long, afraid they might vanish.
Aiko had read the email again in the silence of the studio, heart thudding, blinking away tears that surprised her. The award was national—huge. Reserved for students whose work left something deeper behind, something that made people stop and breathe a little slower.
Her painting had been just that—an emotional offering, born from the quiet struggles she didn't often voice. "Unspoken Echoes" had emerged during a time of artistic doubt, late nights, and whispered encouragements from Haruto when she nearly gave up. It was raw, personal—two silhouettes standing beneath an umbrella in a storm, neither looking at the other, yet tethered by an invisible thread.
She traced a line across her current sketch, the memory of that canvas heavy in her chest. She hadn't painted to win. Only to speak. And someone had heard.
The sound of keys jingling snapped her from her thoughts. Haruto entered, hair tousled from the breeze, cheeks pink from the crisp morning.
"Good morning," he said, leaning over to kiss the top of her head. "Still sketching already?"
She gave a distracted smile. "Trying to catch an idea before it runs off."
He laughed and went to pour himself tea. She watched him, warmth blooming in her chest—this boy who once stood under a cherry blossom tree, confessing dreams of stars, who had since become her constant.
She hesitated for a moment, then said, "Haruto… something happened."
He turned, curious.
"I got an email yesterday. From the National Young Artists committee."
His brow lifted. "Wait… the one you submitted 'Unspoken Echoes' to?"
She nodded slowly.
He stepped closer, eyes wide now. "And?"
She handed him her phone. He read silently, and then his jaw dropped.
"Aiko," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "You were nominated?"
She nodded again, and then he let out a breathless laugh, spinning her in a sudden embrace.
"I knew it," he said. "I told you that painting was something special. They saw it too."
Aiko buried her face in his shoulder, emotions rushing up in waves. "It just doesn't feel real."
He pulled back to look at her, eyes bright. "You deserve this. You've always painted from the heart. That's what makes your work unforgettable."
Later that day, her name was printed on the art department's bulletin board, in neat, black ink under the heading "Award Nominees – National Selection." Students paused in the hallway, murmuring with excitement. Aiko walked past quietly, clutching her portfolio, trying not to draw attention to herself.
But news spread quickly.
By the time she reached the studio, several classmates had already approached her with wide grins and congratulations. Even her professor, a stern but fair woman who rarely gave direct praise, patted her shoulder.
"Your work made me feel something I hadn't in a long time," she said. "That is rare, Aiko. Don't lose that."
The words stayed with her for the rest of the day.
That evening, Haruto brought home a small pastry box. Inside were two matcha cream puffs, topped with tiny chocolate stars.
"For the nominee," he said, with a mock bow. "A modest celebration."
She laughed, touched, and they ate together on the floor, leaning against the sofa, the city lights flickering in the distance.
Between bites, Aiko glanced at him. "Do you ever think… maybe we're really doing it? Chasing what we love?"
Haruto smiled, licking sugar off his thumb. "I think we've already started. And you, Aiko Tanaka, are about to be recognized across the whole country."
She flushed. "Even if I don't win—this nomination alone… it means so much."
He reached out, gently brushing a smudge of charcoal from her cheek. "You don't need to win to know you've already made something beautiful."
She leaned her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes as the city hummed outside their window.
There, in the heart of Tokyo, beneath a sky strewn with invisible stars, a girl who once doubted her voice found it painted across a canvas—and the world, finally, listened.